The Things They Don't Say
by j-orbanski
Summary: There are things that they don't specifically talk about. Sometimes, John wonders if living with Sherlock is even the right thing for his life. But Sherlock always seems to prove that he should stay.  Sherlock / John Slash


**The Things They Don't Say**

**Author: **Jordan

**Rating: **R - NC-17

**Warnings: **It's porn with a bit of plot.

* * *

There are things they don't talk about. Most of the time, Sherlock isn't one for two-way conversation anyway; he'd much rather talk to the skull. Unless there's a case, or some experiment it's pertinent for him to work out, Sherlock isn't a talker.

John had only been living at 221B for a few weeks before he realized he didn't know Sherlock at all. All he knew was the brain behind the work, but he barely knew how that worked. He didn't know what Sherlock thought about besides cases, ways to pester Mycroft, and new ways to clear his mind while thinking without drugs. He somehow felt he didn't know his flat mate at all.

They don't talk about the drugs, lack thereof, or ways to get around them. John was more than surprised during their first drugs bust – Sherlock and recreational drugs? No way. But he did his research, asked around: asked Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, and even asked Mycroft. He knew that Sherlock would kill him if he ever found out that he asked his brother, but John would take that risk for information.

He looked in his old medical books looking for the symptoms of recovering addicts and began to notice that Sherlock began to fill all of the qualifications. He saw the way Sherlock relished his three or four-patch problems. The way the nicotine took over his thoughts, relaxed him completely, and cleared his mind while solving another puzzle. John just accepts that Sherlock needs some sort of chemical dependency, and whether it's cocaine, heroin, or just nicotine – he needs it to function.

They don't talk about Moriarty anymore. The subject of the pool where Carl Powers died is off the table no matter how many times John wakes in the middle of the night, the smells of chlorine and Semtex somehow stuck in his nose. The chase for Jim Moriarty is still on, but you wouldn't think it. John's sure that Sherlock has an entire wall of his bedroom devoted to every trace of the consulting criminal, but it isn't spoken about.

John sometimes wonders if this is some way of Sherlock trying to protect him, but as soon as that thought crossed his mind, he shook it out. The words still infiltrate his mind at least once a week – Moriarty burning the heart out of Sherlock. But that's another thing they don't talk about – Sherlock's heart.

John is sure he has one, as he's seen the way he may bicker with Myrcroft, but knows that's out of brotherly love. He's seen the way he treats Mrs. Hudson. Sure, he may yell at her occasionally, but who didn't? He'd seen the way he'd hugged her, like a motherly figure who still tutted over him despite his age.

And he'd also seen the way that he treated himself. How Sherlock almost treated John as an equal; and Sherlock did not treat people as equals very often, if at all. He had seen his reaction in that split-second that he might have thought John was behind the bombings. And his reaction to ripping the Semtex lined jacket off of John – with such fervor and dexterity that it almost knocked John off his feet.

Some might say John is the heart, while Sherlock is the brains of their relationship, but just as everyone knows that John has a brain, John knows that Sherlock has a heart as well.

They don't talk about Sarah. John wasn't surprised that after a few more nights of sleeping on the sofa that she broke it off, claiming they'd be better off as just being friends. At first, he blamed Sherlock for it. If it hadn't been for that ridiculous first date of circuses, getting kidnapped, and then almost dying, things might not have turned out this way. But then, he looked at the facts, tried to be like Sherlock for a moment and see everything from every angle.

That's when it hit him like a baseball bat to the skull – he wasn't in love with Sarah, he was in love with the idea of her. He wanted to have someone he could recount all of their adventures to, someone to hold at night, someone to keep him sane. The more he looked deeper and deeper into it, the more he realized how stupid he'd been. All those people were right about him and Sherlock – they were a couple. They couldn't function without each other.

But John was certain they wouldn't talk about that either.

So, a week later, when he was sitting on the sofa, watching Jeremy Kyle, his brain full of nothing but Sherlock, he was quite surprised when Sherlock asked him what he was thinking about. He wanted to say nothing, but he knew that he'd see right through that – he knew John and his mannerisms too well already.

John attempted to stall, rising from the couch, asking, "Cup of tea?" as he headed towards the kitchen and away from Sherlock.

He began gathering the necessary tea paraphernalia – kettle, mug, tea bags, sugar, milk, and spoon. He had just put the kettle on its base when he felt hot breath on the back of his neck and a rough hand cover his own, which was resting on the counter. John's breath caught in his throat, heart racing, pulse rising off the charts.

"You can't hide from me, John. I know exactly what you're thinking about," Breathed Sherlock.

John attempted to seem casual and pretend Sherlock's silky voice didn't have an effect on him, but it was useless. He knew that Sherlock was noticing all of the bodily details, putting them in a casebook in his mind and setting up the evidence to solve the case of John Watson.

"You're trying to seem like this doesn't bother in any way, but I know, I can feel, that it does. And I know that the tea was a way of stalling, but you can't escape me, John. I know for the last few days, the only thing that's been on your mind has been me. I caught you staring, it wasn't exactly rocket science."

John sighed in defeat, "Fine, fine. You're exactly right, as always."

He could almost feel Sherlock smile into his hair, "I also know how turned on this is making you, John."

John audibly swallowed, forgetting how to breathe as Sherlock's hand moved from his own, down the woolen side of his jumper, to his belt buckle. He felt Sherlock's lips press a chaste kiss to the back of his neck as dexterous fingers undid his belt, button, and the zip of his trousers in just a few swift motions.

"Tell me you don't want this and I'll stop right now," said Sherlock, and John swore he could hear his voice waver, if just for a moment.

"Don't you dare stop now," Came John's breathy reply.

The hand quickly dipped under the elastic waistband of his pants and lightly grabbed his already half-hard cock, stroking a few times as Sherlock began nipping at the back of John's earlobe. He traced the curve of cartilage with his tongue as his hand continued a slow, teasing assault of John's cock. He bit down on the soft flesh, eliciting a moan from the doctor before he suddenly stopped everything. The hand left John's pants, his mouth stopped nibbling, and he backed entirely away from John.

"Why the hell did you stop?" asked John, audibly panting, confusion coating his words.

"So I can do this," replied Sherlock before turning John around, finally facing one another for this first time in what felt like ages.

Sherlock looked down into John's blue eyes for just a moment before he tilted his head slightly and kissed him. John's lips parted automatically and soon their tongues dueled for dominance, John finally conceding. He grasped the back of Sherlock's head, fingers interlocking into the brunette curls as he began to grind his hips into Sherlock's. A groan escaped the taller's throat, making John smile into their kiss.

Their hips crashed together like waves onto the beach, trouser-covered erections savoring the friction until one of them had enough sense to shed them of their trousers and pants so flesh could meet flesh.

A thought went through John's mind for a moment: that they were getting off in the kitchen, where they make food, but then remembered the frozen fingers in the freezer, the head in the fridge, and the petri dishes of mould spores on the table and realized that it didn't matter.

Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around both of their cocks, stroking in time with their thrusts as for once in his life, his brain was entirely full of white noise. There was nothing else he could think of at this moment but the feeling of John's cock sliding against his own, his hand wrapped around both of them, the way John's hot breath kept grazing his neck as his head buried itself in that perfect crook where neck met shoulder.

He swore he felt hot and cold at the same time as his hand stroked faster and faster, moans drifting from both of their mouths, John biting at his neck. It didn't take Sherlock long before he felt the height of build up before the crash of orgasm, his hand shaking slightly as he kept stroking.

John came not long after that, breath panting, fingers curling so hard into Sherlock's hair that he thought it would rip out. Sherlock smiled as he wiped his cum-coated hand on a tea towel sitting on the counter.

John's head left the crook of Sherlock's neck and looked straight into his blue eyes before saying, "Well, I'm glad we discussed that."

Sherlock laughed as he kissed John again.


End file.
